A/N: I know the lyrics are meant to be a love-song, but I think it fits a friendship like this, don't you?

Part 5: Warrior (cont.)

(Now and then)

Arthur was not aware of the moment when sensation returned, nor of the act of opening his eyes. He was indoors, and it was white and clean… and safe.

He heard a soft beeping, more distant ringing. Female voices both abrupt and compassionate.

A myriad of impressions was absorbed into one truth – life continued.

But what about –

He turned his head slightly on the pillow, moved his eyes, as Angel leaned forward into his vision. Leaned right on him – he felt the boy's hand on his arm – the one touch introducing all physical feelings. Heavy, sore, lethargic, uncomfortable.

There was an old bruise visible on the back of Angel's jaw, that Arthur didn't remember, and another crescent-shaped one that curved out from his nose. There were scabbed lines of split skin on his cheekbone, by his thick black brow. Past the first infliction, past the horrific few-days-later, on the way to healing.

But his eyes. Arthur was distracted from the confusion of what happened, by the look in his friend's eyes – so anxiously hopeful, so confidently joyful –

"Arthur. Arthur?"

His mouth was too dry to speak, so he settled for blinking. And the first thing Angel said – past the decisions and mistakes and danger and pain Arthur remembered from when they'd seen each other last –

"My name is Merlin."

He understood. That was thank you and I'm sorry and we're good. And so much more.

Arthur choked a swallow and managed to whisper, "Nice to meet you, Merlin."

Which really was just as perfect a name for the unusual young man as Angel. But somehow nice to meet you wasn't enough.

So he rasped, "Merlin… really? It's a… terrible name. No wonder you don't… tell anybody."

Merlin's face split with a wide, radiant grin, and he tossed his head back and laughed.

I cried a tear… you wiped it dry
I was confused… you cleared my mind

I sold my soul… you bought it back for me
And held me up… and gave me dignity
Somehow you needed me

You gave me strength… to stand alone again
To face the world… out on my own again

You put me high… upon a pedestal
So high that I could almost see eternity
You needed me, you needed me

And I can't believe it's you… I can't believe it's true
I needed you… and you were there

And I'll never leave… why should I leave, I'd be a fool
'Cause I've finally found… someone who really cares

You held my hand… when it was cold
When I was lost… you took me home

You gave me hope… when I was at the end
And turned my lies… back into truth again
You even called me friend…

"You Needed Me" ~ Anne Murray

(Two years and some odd months later)

Arthur stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom he shared with his wife – room always and mirror, occasionally - half-dressed, black slacks and socks.

His white dress shirt hung open from his shoulders, one side of the undershirt peeled away to allow fingertips to explore his skin, eyes to examine the reflection of the scar that still fascinated him, even after all this time.

Small caliber. He'd been lucky.

He snorted. That is to say, after he'd been duped and ambushed and forced to his knees in the back lot of an engine repair shop for an execution-style shooting.

Lucky, even so. That his best friend had been there, and smart enough to manage to shift the weapon away from his heart. To slow the bleeding with his own bare hands, until emergency help could arrive. Lucky they didn't try to shoot him in the head.

"Something the matter?" his wife said, leaning out the bathroom door into the bedroom.

He hurried to begin on his buttons, but she wasn't fooled, was his sharp-eyed wife. She came to stand behind him, shoeless and perfect in a little black dress that somehow managed to be plain, modest, and sexy as hell. He had no idea if she was done with her makeup or not – hardly ever did, she always looked perfectly beautiful to him – but her hair had been gathered loosely in a fancy short braid at her spine, leaving tendrils to frame her face and a generous spill of dark curls the rest of the way down her back.

She wrapped her arms around his waist as he finished buttoning, one up over his ribs and the other nudging his belt, low enough to give him ideas.

Later, he told himself – and it helped when she moved that hand to snag his tie from the dresser next to the closet door.

"It's the tie that's the problem," he growled, in pretence that she probably saw right through. But he carried on, flipping up his collar as she draped the offending accessory over his shoulders. Ruby-red and emerald-green horizontal stripes, separated by thin lines of glittery gold. Garish, at best.

"What do you expect, it's Christmas," Gwen said comfortably, raising on tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder as he wrestled the knot into his tie.

"Christmas is over," he disagreed. "It's New Year's."

"Same decoration theme. Everyone else has to do it – and be glad I didn't get you the one with jingle bells."

"Everyone," he grumped, unwilling to concede to her good mood yet. "I bet this is why my father said he wasn't coming. I bet there is no meeting."

"He didn't say meeting, he said obligation." Arthur grunted, but could feel her smile into his shoulder. "My father and brother are wearing matching ones," she added.

That helped. A little. And the thought that of course Percival would wear the requisite holiday accessory - and Lancelot, the ever-dapper. "You really think Gwaine is going to wear a tie at all? Weddings and funerals, he claims, and this is neither. And I've never even seen Merlin in a tie – you think he owns one?"

"He does now," Gwen said, and her dimple showed. "Come on, Detective Penn, we're going to be late."

That title felt good to hear after long last, and it didn't even bother him that the first part had been hers first – not after he'd gotten his name attached to her title. Mr. and Mrs. Detective Penn. He grinned and said exaggeratedly, "Yes, Detective Penn."

Even dressing up, his Gwennie was as fast and unfussy as she'd ever been after one of their tours as partners. He had to hurry with tucking in his shirt and fixing his collar and fitting his suit-coat, and was still tying his shoes when she appeared at the door, black-suede boots zipped, wool shawl wrapped, tiny crystal-studded bag dangling from her wrist, double-checking her earrings for security.

He took a moment – and his life in his hands – to wrap her in an impulsive bear-hug, in spite of her delicate finery. "I love you so much," he whispered into the fragrance of her hair beside her ear.

"Love you more," she returned, with a particular sort of affectionate impudence that he cherished. "Now come on, you know he'll never forgive you if we're late."

"He'd forgive me," Arthur disagreed, following her out into the dark night, where the Christmas lights of the neighborhood outshone the street-lamps. It smelled like snow, though there hadn't been any yet that year, and gasoline. If he listened hard he was sure he could hear sleigh-bells over the distant traffic noise of the city. "He just wouldn't let me forget it."

They drove in comfortable silence, the satellite radio in the car – an early present from Arthur's father that he suspected was as much for his promotion to detective as for the season – tuned to classic carols. And they weren't the last to arrive – at least two turn signals were blinking on vehicles in his rearview mirror when he turned into the parking lot – but neither were they first.

"It's impressive, isn't it?" Gwen said, leaning forward to view the city's new civic center, lit by specially-placed and holiday-themed spotlights.

"Impressive nothing," Arthur said. "What matters is if it works."

"There's the captain," she said, not arguing. "And Lancelot – I don't recognize his date." Arthur was too busy maneuvering into the parking space to look. "Is Gwaine bringing his partner?"

"I think it's more like, she's bringing him," Arthur said. "Would you get on the back of a motorcycle dressed like that, on a night as cold as this?"

Her answer was a single raised eyebrow to convey the knowledge that he should anticipate her reply.

The great lobby of the civic center was well-lit and well-populated. A young girl dressed as staff stood ready to greet them and hand them a glossy folded flyer.

"I don't need it," Arthur said, but Gwen accepted one with a smile and nod of thanks.

"I don't need it either," she said archly at his look, "but I want one of these to keep. He's going to be famous someday, you know."

It was an ad for the center detailing its commission, its primary sponsors, its construction history. Boring – but there was a page dedicated to the secondary attraction of the fundraiser. The center was complete, but the community juvenile outreach would always be able to use extra support. Before- and after-school programs – art, music, sports. Keep kids out of trouble, let them exercise a talent. Learn discipline, which would help them in school, which would help them in life.

Another female college student in black jeans and t-shirt with black-and-burgundy-streaked hair was in one corner with a keyboard and sound system, coaxing a jazzy seasonal atmosphere into the room.

There was a great wraparound reception desk to the right, and a stair that climbed to the second floor rooms, which would host classes from yoga to finger painting, and anything in-between they could get a teacher for. On the left, childcare rooms, and other doors that led further into the building. Weight rooms, an indoor track, even a racquetball court, he remembered from the plans, in addition to more popular sports' arenas.

In the center, but not in the way, two long buffet tables bore trays and platters and towers of hors d'oeuvres and finger-desserts. Gwaine was there already, Arthur saw, but couldn't tell if a tie was present or not.

"I don't see him," Arthur said, and she knew who he referred to by pronoun only. "Hope he didn't disappear again."

"If he did, he'll come back," she reassured him. "He always does." Arthur conceded the point with a grunt, and she added, "Where do you want to go first?"

"We've probably seen most of this," Arthur reminded her, but they inched toward the left, to the first display.

Arthur recognized the man standing before it, hands on hips, coat-tails spread. Leon Steele, with a sharp-eyed but well-endowed blonde at his side, quietly watching him more than she studied the artwork. After a moment he turned, linking his arm with the woman's with unconscious familiarity of years of intimacy. Arthur saw the gleam of unshed tears in Leon's eyes – just before he saw Arthur, and smiled.

He reached out his hand, and Arthur shook it, and neither of them had to say a word, before the couple moved off into the crowd.

Because the first organized display was a tribute, the subject so familiar neither he nor Gwen had to read the note-card explanation. Front and center, a portrait done in blended oils – an older man with a grim mouth and a twinkle in his eyes, who could have been anyone's grandfather, and wore a striped scarf draped around his neck. Orbiting the central painting were sketches – pencil, ink, chalk – one yellow-striped sheet, obviously a template for the oil portrait. Angus talking, laughing, staring thoughtfully into the distance.

"Wow," Arthur said, feeling his throat tighten.

"Percival did a really great job, didn't he?" Gwen murmured.

Arthur nodded. And after a moment managed, "I wish he was here tonight. To see this."

Gwen knew he didn't mean Percival, the agent and coordinator of the event. She said softly, "What makes you think he isn't?"

Someone behind them – fat-and-unhappy middle-aged socialite, he thought, by the brief glance over his shoulder – said to a companion, "Well, you know they're only displaying his artwork because he used to be homeless. It's all marketing, not talent."

Gwen caught his arm in a pinching grip as he was turning, and leaned close to murmur, "Don't. He wouldn't want you to." Merlin, or Ben? Arthur wondered, finding it much easier than it used to be, to control his temper. She added, "He'd laugh at them, you know he would." Ben's eyes seemed to twinkle at him as he moved away at her leading.

It was a good layout, Arthur – who didn't know a thing about art or its presentation – thought, as they moved from one arrangement to the next. Another oil-portrait tribute, to a thin pale woman who wore a green head-scarf and a loving smile – but the rest was a mix of quick but clear sketches, dreamy watercolor impressions, a handful of acrylic paintings Arthur knew had taken Merlin hours, in Ben's basement.

A few old things that Arthur recognized from the street boy's first cardboard folio. A few people he recognized. Most arrangements calculated – by Percival more than Merlin, he suspected – to influence emotion. The small and sordid and desperate of street-life; the freedom and optimism and hope of the city-scapes. Pride and shame. Scope and detail.

Life.

"I see Father and Elyan, I'm going to go say hi," Gwen murmured; he felt her slip away.

"What do you think?" another male voice asked behind him a moment later, and he turned immediately to shake Percival's hand.

One of the biggest guys Arthur had ever met; he hadn't an ounce of fat on him, and he was as habitually dapper in his dress as Lancelot. His little-boy grin – occasionally more youthful than Merlin's, as he'd had a more traditionally stable upbringing – split his square face with the high of achievement.

Pride in tonight's prodigy, pleasure at his own contribution, anticipation of the financial success of the night. Counted in donations for the center's program for underprivileged children, and the silent auction of nearly half the artwork on display for Merlin personally. The former street kid had confided in Arthur last week, he hoped at least to earn enough to resupply the studio section of his apartment in Ben's basement, which he now rented from Ben's sister. Tonight, Arthur would not be surprised to hear that it paid for another semester's tuition of community college.

"It's amazing," he said, casting his gaze around the room. "I don't know how I'm going to bring myself to walk out of here."

Percival's eyes sparkled. "When they shut off the lights and you can't see anything anymore…"

Arthur agreed with a grin. "Thank you so much for this. For everything you've done for him."

The big man shrugged. "He's done a lot for himself. It's not everyone who has the spirit and opportunity – and the friends –" he gave Arthur a little half-bow of recognition – "to rise above the lowest of circumstances. But…" his expression and tone lightened again – "I'm not sure he'll thank me just yet."

"Why not?" Arthur said.

"Have you seen him tonight?" For a moment they both searched the crowd, but unsuccessfully. "I had to talk to him back into this twice. He's still absolutely jittery at the thought of strangers looking at his work."

"Not so good for an artist, huh?" Arthur said dryly, and Percival grunted agreement.

"Have you see the piece that's the focal point upstairs?" the agent added, tipping his head back to look up to the second-floor balcony, where glass panels topped by a brass rail provided safety. To Arthur's negative reply, he added, "I have a feeling he'd find you, there."

Arthur frowned at Percival, who obviously knew something he didn't, but the other just grinned and shrugged – and moved past Arthur to greet someone else.

Gwen was back, with Elyan at her side. "There's a painting on the second floor you both need to see," the quiet stocky fireman informed Arthur, obviously relaying information he'd already given his sister. "Is Gwaine here?"

Arthur swallowed his groan, wordlessly pointing out the most infamous detective of the Nineteenth to his brother-in-law, and saved his complaint for Gwen, as she dragged him toward the stair. "It's one of me, isn't it?"

"I don't know, exactly, I didn't – oh, look there."

They stopped at the foot of the stair; Gwen gestured through a break in the crowd. A woman on her own, approaching middle-age – bleached-blonde hair in curls, heavy makeup. She was dressed in a black leather skirt several inches above her knees, paired with a fuzzy crimson sweater that flaunted a plunging neckline that was practically inappropriate for the weather. She looked uneasy, and Arthur thought about going to her, before deciding that attention would make her discomfort worse.

She caught sight of them, and Arthur's raised hand followed Gwen's by mere fractions of a second. Candy tentatively waggled her fingers in response, before hurriedly turning away to pretend interest – or to find some that was genuine – in the nearest collage.

"You can't save them all," Gwen said in Arthur's ear.

"I know."

"At least she's here, tonight… Come on, I'm curious to see upstairs."

He followed his wife – more than admiring the view, that little black dress was hot on her – to the top of the stairs. Squeezing between well-dressed donors, they approached the central painting – it was large, was Arthur's first impression, and dark, done in blues and blacks – before his attention was caught, off to the side.

As Merlin straightened out of the embrace of the elderly woman he now fondly referred to as Aunt Gladys. Landlady and godmother and – yes, spinster aunt was about right. All her vague sisterly affection for Ben Angus seemed to have transferred to the boy he had died trying at least to protect, if not save.

Merlin looked up and saw him, and the fond appreciation he showed Aunt Gladys kindled to something fiercer when he grinned at Arthur. The young artist spoke to the elderly woman, who turned to find Arthur in the crowd, and waved her fingertips at him. Arthur returned the wordless salutation, and Gladys turned to peruse the sketches on the far wall, as Merlin headed for Arthur.

"I love the tie," he called over the last two people separating them, and Arthur gave him a half-hearted glare – that totally dissolved when he saw Merlin's.

Then he laughed outright. "Jingle bells," he said.

"What?" Merlin said, smoothing the tie defensively. "Gwen got it for me. And Janine said, without it I'd look like an undertaker."

He probably would. Tale and thin, with the contrast of pale skin and black suit, black hair combed too deliberately to the side for the more haphazardly-styled street kid Arthur had met two years ago. But…

"Janine?" Arthur said.

Merlin leaned sideways on the balcony rail. "The keyboard player."

Arthur glanced down, remembering. Burgundy highlights in black hair, black jeans and t-shirt. He wondered if try, try again applied here, but decided not to ask. Yet.

"So what do you think?" Merlin added, a bit shy with self-consciousness.

"About?"

Merlin inclined his head and eyebrows to the painting. A group of four was just drifting away, and Gwen stood alone to one side, right arm crossed over her ribs to support the elbow of her left arm, that hand lifted to cover her mouth. In critical contemplation, in horrified shock, or anything in-between.

Arthur moved – to his perception, his steps slowed the closer he got, the less attention he paid to himself as it all gathered to the painting.

Blues and blacks, shadowed obscurity around the edges. Sparks of yellow-white-orange, clearly delineating the downtown buildings with light, seen from a close distance – and a rooftop. But the city-scape, while incredible, was not the focus.

A man stood at the edge of the rooftop, one foot up on the low parapet, in scrutiny of the city at once casual and intent - a superhero's human alter ego, it might be. Illuminated by some unseen light source, perhaps electric, perhaps the moon, his clothes indistinct – his hair gleaming dark-gold.

It was Arthur. And yet – even though Arthur had never seen himself from his own four o'clock – not quite. Just as the clothing hinted at police uniform… but not quite. The man, who might have represented Arthur, clearly watched over the city. A guardian, a protector.

And. Anchored up on the parapet just beside the man – a bit behind, to the viewer's perspective – was a life-size winged stone statue, done in an amazing blend of gray and green. Not quite a gargoyle, by the clear human features – also specifically familiar, prominent cheekbones and ears, full lips, yet not exact – but not yet a seraphim, by the clawed fingertips and crouched-forward stance.

The police-guardian stood close enough to touch the statue, actually within the curve of the extended right wing – separate, yet unified by the direction and quality of the gaze and expression, stone and flesh.

Gwen's fingers brushed Arthur's sleeve, which somehow prompted his gaze to flick sideways to the card next to the frame.

"An Angel's Angel" (Not For Sale)

The words he'd never been good with piled up in his throat, and might've choked him, if he hadn't focused deliberately on breathing.

And he could've stood staring there all night, discovering detail after detail, except that Merlin hovered tense and uncertain at his other side – watching for his reaction, in blatant disregard of his own masterpiece.

Arthur faced him, and still could not quite comprehend the complexity of his friend. How Merlin could show the world how he felt so clearly and so bravely, and yet doubt his reception from Arthur.

He stretched out his hand and grabbed Merlin's suit-jacket and fine white shirt at his shoulder. By Merlin's expression, he still did not understand, though he allowed Arthur to pull him closer – did not understand til Arthur's arms were around him. Brief, maybe, but tight and telling.

"It's for you," Merlin said breathlessly, hanging on also.

"It's beautiful," Gwen told Merlin sincerely, sliding in beside them, one arm around each, as Arthur released Merlin, except for a hand on his shoulder.

Arthur struggled to keep his tone even. "Thank you, Merlin. And… Happy New Year."

Whatever Merlin saw in Arthur's expression, after this reassurance from his wife, his eyes shone bright and happy in response – all the reward Arthur needed for what little he'd done.

"Hey," Gwaine said from behind Arthur. "How come I'm not in it?"

A/N: And that's a wrap! A general thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, followed! A more specific thanks to: a narnian, who sounding-boarded my angst over doing justice to the homeless issue before I took the plunge of writing the first words; SkySorrow, who looked up all the music I referenced (impressive!); and Audriel and Assassin of Syria, who reviewed all the chapters (also impressive! thanks for sticking with me!)

I have a handful of housekeeping-type chapters I want to add to various finished works (beginning with Blood Brothers?), so it'll be about a month before I begin another multi-chapter – and then, it's likely to be a sequel to an existing work… but that's as much direction as I can give for future plans, right now!